


Mr.Loverman

by Lilac_satan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dean Winchester's Toxic Masculinity, Denial, Depression, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Heavy Angst, I will be pick and choosing, Inspired by Music, Inspired by the song Loverman, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Mr.Loverman, Oracle - Freeform, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Protective Sam Winchester, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Toxic coping, also not to brutal, because they were done dirty, but he has to get therapy, its always pained me to see Cas just stay even after all the shit evreyone's thrown at him, mainly focused on our boys, no more burying the gays, some of the characters are only mentioned, take this as the one time he gets hurt and actually leaves, this should really be a warning that i will be brutal on Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28004481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilac_satan/pseuds/Lilac_satan
Summary: His face had been so blank, like the first time they met, but worse because this time he was hiding behind it. Castiel was hiding from Dean. He shouldn't have to. All at once, the angel had become unreadable, not a single physical clue to what he was thinking, but Dean knew he had messed up. The most rational part of himself slammed itself into his mind, desperate in its attempts to get him to say so, and still, he ignorantly resisted. Everyone walked away, he used this as an excuse to justify not letting people close to keep himself distant, but now he only allowed himself to understand why. It was because of him. He was rotten, so utterly gone._We are all unhappy with the ending, and although I'm late i have my own shit that i need to straighten out at least for myself.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Mr.Loverman

**Author's Note:**

> Starts after "the" fight between Dean and Cas that pissed of evreyone.

He hates the quiet.

Finds it overwhelming with how it embraces him in its circle of muted noise, its deafening, its madness, and it drives him over the edge. His throat burns, pulses and aches with the need to scream, to holler until he is the one to mute himself. To fill the void that left him feeling so defenseless, so weak. And if there was one thing that Winchester men weren't was weak, his father had been sure of nailing that into his head. Instead, he let his throat itch so unbearably painful that he was sure it was a nightmare. Pain like this couldn't be real.

Vile were the words that he let bubble over, and despite being the catalyst for what had transpired, he couldn't understand why it pained him so. His chest felt claustrophobic, clamped tightly, threatening to steal him of breath and life, and just when he felt like he could take one satisfying deep breath, he choked. His stomach seemed to be in an intangible knot when he recalled how broken the other had seemed, how anger had flashed through the angel's features in a way he'd never seen before, twisting him to appear villainous. He hoped he would say something when his mouth opened a mere centimeter. He let go of the tension and was ready for the scolding, begged for it.

He knew of his cruelty, how disgusting he was, how repulsive he remained when his friend, his family, had instead closed his mouth. Looking at him with so much agony, and instead of hurting him, he had kept to himself and let a few tears escape him before he turned and left the bunker. Crying wasn't something angels do. Dean wasn't even sure if they could do it, but he realized it too late, so when he ran up the stairs, tripping him on his way up to prevent him from seeing the other man's leave, in typical fashion, he was too late. On his way down the stairs, they lulled him instead, all the way to the chair closest to him, collapsing and wallowing as he shook with a flurry of emotions that he couldn't quite name.

The tapping of his calloused fingers, forged and perfected in their rough design, against the smooth and polished exterior of the wooden table was the only thing keeping him sane. It was a constant, from booking motel rooms on busy streets to always playing music even if on the lowest setting, the methodical and innovative melody of the musicians calming him, lulling him into the peace he was deprived of. The peace he'd learned to associate with sound, careful and brilliantly composed, or sporadic and randomly serene. Regardless he let himself be enveloped in whatever white noise the world provided him.

In previous hunts, they had to settle where they could, motel rooms in the hidden parts of town, rooms that smelled as bad as they looked—stained with the rancid smell of decay. The beds like cardboard poking them awake the second they let themselves relax, the carpets a bacteria-infested minefield amongst numerous stains that they preferred to remain unnamed, amongst rows of rotting and decade-old wallpaper that peeled to reveal layers of age. They were in no place to complain, but that didn't stop Dean, and when the evening came, he prepared himself for a restless night.

The first time he'd done it, Metallica softly making its way from his phone's speakers, Sam had sighed and huffed and groaned until eventually he had escaped the concrete like bed and ran out of the room. The rapid pit patter of his feet making him shake and sweat, the slam of the door only throwing him into a frenzy momentarily. Too tired to call after him, he waited, and no more than fifteen minutes, his brother had emerged again, this time with a pair of headphones and a condescending look. He had taken the headphones gratefully, without sparing his brother a glance, however, and plugged them in.

Once they got a bunker, this was no longer an issue, but a new one arrived. Dean's room was small, or big, or massive, he didn't really know, but he smiled every time he walked in, giddy as he laid on his bed. The walls a crooked grey that he desperately wanted to paint over, the semblance to a prison cell was far too overwhelming and wished instead to make it home. The massive military-style door was on both ends of the spectrum. On the one hand, it was cool. It added some aesthetic that Dean believed suited him, or wish it did. On the other hand, it made it quiet. Rusted iron, at least a foot thick and eight feet tall, it loomed over him, taunting him with the silence it forced down his throat.

Now he could play his music without the worry of bothering anyone, without the fear of the silence taking over.

He hated loud noise.

Right now, it felt unbearable.

Cas had left, Castiel to Dean now. Dean didn't deserve to call the angel anything after what he had done, and the guilt, the thick, disgusting guilt that he kept trying to swallow down, echoing through his mind so unbearable loud that he failed to notice his fingers had long stopped moving. Instead, a chill had overtaken him, so cold, so isolated, and rapidly he lounged forward. The chair next to him knocked over as he rushed for the whiskey bottle they kept atop the countertop to the northern wall. At the time, it seemed like the ideal place for it, an homage to their earlier and far more unfortunate days. In the entire bunker, that wall was the most unkept. The bricks, once laid with determination for perfection and uniformity, now cracked and crumbling.

The first glass breaks, he blames it on the glass, the second is more resilient, and he's able to serve himself, the platter unnaturally cold against his skin, and the possibility of having a fever enters his mind. He pushes it aside before downing his drink in a single gulp, and finally, he can breathe, the guilt dissolved with the burn of his alcohol. He allowed himself to close his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids a reward he didn't deserve, and so he smashed his hand right into the glass shards from a mere few seconds ago. A spontaneous action became repetitive, and in it, he found solace as he tattered his right hand. His left side supported by the counter, the intricate metalwork handles poking into his body.

His left hand was still raised high with his empty glass as he toasted to whatever was left, to whoever could listen and saying what he had wanted to for years. He felt like a druggie, locked away in rehab. In the corner of a room with lights far too bright, scorching his eyes if he dared to stop squinting, his emotional state long beyond repair, and so cold. Freezing as he let go of his second glass, it felt so lovely to hear it collapse. Sam had bought them on an impulse, and he had dropped two on one as well. The sound of it was crisp, and he laughed as he pummeled his hand into the fresh pile over and over.

The door had been so loud. It had been more audible than before. He was sure of it. It could be a witch. As if what he did wasn't awful enough, it was the sound that made it resonate that let him know that what he did wouldn't be fixed regardless of what he tried.

"Dean, I thought I heard, fuck, what are you doing?!" It's too loud. He can tell that right away but what he doesn't understand is why. The next few moments seem to be broken, more like pictures than a continuous fluid state of mind. Sam was always so caring. It made him nosy, always wanting to be aware for everyone's sake. Dean thought that was an excuse for being a gossiper. Whenever anything involved emotion, he would creep his lanky and awkward self only to poke around, pushing buttons that he hoped would reveal anything about his older brother's emotional state. Unfortunately, his brother was under lock and key. Years of packing on layers and mazes marked him as unreadable as he could be, given his ever inconvenient humanity.

It was frustrating for both of them. Sam had been provided the opportunity to blossom emotionally, figure himself out, and be in tune with his emotions. He had been saved of the excruciating lectures and beatings, free from the bone-chilling tremors Dean would feel the second he dared to show emotion even years after John's departure. Sam had a brick for a brother. Dean hated it. He was a brother, he needed emotions to be a good one, yet he couldn't seem to tap into them. He was as much a mystery to others as he was to himself. 

Unfortunately, he did know one thing, set in stone and true just like God's tablets, the disgraceful and troublesome things that they were. He was aware of how he managed himself the few times emotion did seep through. It was only ever scorching red, vibrant, and radiating as it bubbled over, and he couldn't help but open his mouth and let such horrible foulness escape time. It was always anger, never anything useful like sadness; only the most damaging of emotions could ever escape him. The older sibling harbored it for so long towards himself. He deserved it; he had failed so often that despite wanting to keep count, he found himself unable to. He hated himself, and the moment he could shift the blame, he did. He hated himself because all he could do was hurt people, good and bad, family and not, deserving and undeserving.

"...Your hand, I need to find Cas." Concern and the last seven words of whatever ramble Sam had gone off on were the only things he managed to catch, but it was the angel's name that forced another scream out of him. On instinct, his hand went to punch down on the ground. However, his brother had not let go, and in his weakness, he yelled louder, thrashing and pulling until his brother forced his hands to his chest. He needed to do this. He needed to.

He needed to feel bad. He needed to be punished for the pain he inflicted on others, Jo, Amy, Sam, Lisa, and Ben, just to name a few of the people he'd failed and ruined. Some dead, rotting while he selfishly lived his life and wasted it too, some close enough to it dragged into a war that they didn't choose, and untimely succumbed to it, others forced to stick by him. Twisted into the family, Kevin didn't deserve what had happened to him, nor his mother. Kevin had a family. He didn't need them. Dean needed the pain, so he pushed and pulled against his taller counterpart because Dean deserved something far worse than stitches in his hand, but until the day came, or he gained the courage, this was a close substitute.

In a more reserved part of himself, he silently hoped Castiel would hear his prayers or pain and come back, even if just to make sure he was okay. That Dean was sixteen years old, fresh-faced, and eyes rimmed red in an abandoned building a few miles from where he and his father had rented. The case was wretched at best, a severe case of seemingly bloodthirsty and sadistic vampires who liked to play with their food before the deed was done. As with almost every case, they had fought, but unlike times before, Dean had run, had let himself feel free, and huddled in the corner of a room with far too many rats and missing boards. Instantly that adrenaline had dwindled and was immediately replaced with fear and self-hatred. His only comfort came in a stupid sentence muttered between his teeth: _If angels are real, please help me._

"Get away from me." He should have stayed quiet. The older of the two knew it. It seemed everything that managed to leave his mouth only made it worse for him. His voice came out hoarse like scraping rust of a panel, rough and in need of smoothness. Broken and overwhelmingly sad. Despite that, he only shook his head before resuming his ill attempted escape plan.

"Dean! Stop okay? I'm not letting you continue fucking yourself up, and in your state, you know that you won't be able to get away, so just talk to me and if you don't fucking fine, but at least behave until we can find Cas and we can heal whatever you did to yourself. We'll talk later, but you sobbing out it's terrifying, so for once, just let me help you." Sob, so that's what he was doing, not yelling but sobbing. How twisted did he have to be to not be able to acknowledge that? To call it yelling? He only denied it more, starting to push away again, only this time, his left hand seared, and his vision got blurry.

¨He's fucking gone, Sam!¨ It wasn't unusual for the angel to leave when the younger sibling thought of it. Most of their relationship was Cas appearing and disappearing. He left for months at a time, and that never made much a difference in the bond they all shared, the genuine and mutual care for one another, but as Dean spoke, exclaimed loud and resounding that their friend had left the tone of finality and resentment didn't go unnoticed. It was final, and as everything went off the rails, Sam couldn't help but think that Cas leaving them was only logical. After all, the Winchesters always seemed to lose those they cared about one way or another.

Saying that things hadn't gone according to plan was an understatement. In fact, if you looked at it, the transgression, through an outsider's lens, it seemed like that had no plan with how rapidly everything fell apart. In the end, they had all come out losing. They had all fallen for Belphegor's tricks. They had all failed. In the end, they had lost so many, and they all felt the aftermath of their parting.

Castiel had lost Jack twice. The first time had been hard-hitting for them all. They had assimilated him into their life despite the rough patch in the beginning, and despite the siblings loving him, none of that could compare to what Castiel felt for the blonde. After all, he was the kid's father, more than his actual father, whom Jack had rejected, and once the shock faded, Castiel, the obedient soldier he sometimes was, took this role to heart. Vividly he could recall how he started by the affectionate route, but Cass was still so awkward that he just stood awkwardly with his hands wide and open, inviting but stiff. It didn't matter. Jack had lit up, bouncing from his seat to envelop his self-proclaimed father, and upon impact, both of them melted. They seemed so wrapped in their own world, statue-like if not for the small movement from the inhales and exhales. Five minutes in, his no-good brother had stomped over in an effort to stop the ¨sissy fest¨ Sam had tripped him on the way, and on his way to the floor, Dean had cussed him up and down. It was the start of a relationship that made the two involved healthier and happier. But it heavily debilitated Castiel when Jack passed.

Then a demon, foul and repulsive, the vain of Castiel's existence had taken his son's body and a vessel, and it nearly broke him. For days he couldn't look up from the ground, and when he did, his eyes were glossed over, and Sam couldn't stand the look of it. Eventually, the glossiness disappeared, but he still wouldn't hold contact with Dean or Belphegor. There was a hole in the wall, right next to the Men of Letters archives of written testimonies. He had been sat adjacent to it when lethargic as a sloth, Castiel had stumbled his way into the main room. He was pale, jittery to the point of concern. After all, he was an angel, any human illness couldn't affect him, so it raised concerns. Dean had been the one to get to him first, panicked hands and concerned eyes quickly morphed into anger when Cas only weakly managed to pull him off and stated coldly that he refused to accept his help.

Belphegor had only stupidly whistled as it all quickly went to shit, and despite Dean's anger, the one that left you unable to speak, red-faced and red-rimmed eyes, had redirected it to the wall and given into the loving accessory that it now had. Sam had quickly jumped in between them, dragging Castiel to his room as Dean roared behind them and Belophegor, just as unhelpful as before, booed at them. It turned out to be a straightforward angelic concept, _oriphelji_. God's punishment to angels who had a child with a human, a very unplanned one, seemed like God couldn't bother making a good one.

Oriphelji was a bond that angels had to their Nephilim children. It only affected them once one of them died, slowly draining the other's energy and life force until they died. Fortunately for them, two days later, Castiel was back on his feet, better than ever, as if nothing happened. Deciding not to press their luck, they just blamed it on luck. Then Belphegor had been revealed for the snake of a demon that he was, and Castiel had to lose Jack again. But he knew it wasn't Jack, but this abomination had worn his sons face, Dean had allowed it to use a member of their family as another meat suit, and he had to put him down. There was nothing left of him after that. He would walk from one end of the bunker to another, bumping into things and people as he did. If he were a human, they'd be concerned, but instead, they let him be, at least Sam did.

Dean had always been Sam's support, always the one standing for him when he cowered from his father, the one to urge him on when he expressed his wish for an everyday life. He had been forced into a position at so young an age that it was impossible for him to find an outlet. Their father was more of a sergeant and coach than anything. But while Sam could always turn to Dean to be proud of him, Dean needed validation, and unfortunately, his only option was John. Cold and rigid from the life he has been living, unable to see his son for what he was, a child in loss of a mother, and in need of a father. He put up with the worst of it, and all Sam had done was complain and hate him because he was still in the life, not seeing that his brother and almost every hunter had been dragged into the life as well.

Bitter over the consistent motel rooms, old and disgusting, that they stayed in sometimes for months when a case just wouldn't let up. Filled with resentment over years of unpacking and packing up just as quick as they moved from city to city and state to state. Despite knowing that it was dangerous, regardless of knowing he wasn't fit to raise them, Frustrated because their father had paraded them around instead of letting them stay with Bobby. Bobby, who had loved them like sons and wanted nothing but the best for the two boys instead, was forced to sit down and see how John ran them into the ground until eventually, they were nothing but strangers with the label; of family smacked crooked on top of them. Dean had needed Bobby and was deprived of it. Dean had needed Mary, and now she too was gone.

¨Where did he go?¨ A question that shined in its simplicity, but Sam had long learned that Dean, someone so emotionally constipated, did better when given a simple question with not too much emotional charge. Truthfully Sam had wanted to as _¨Why did he go?¨_ but it was so charged that his brother, delicate as he currently was, would implode into himself again, and he was already so hurt. Not to mention that to ask would be hypocritical at best. Sam wasn't wallpaper. He was a person with functioning senses, and he had seen how the relationship between the other to men had rapidly deteriorated.

They were both in grief, and one would assume that they would be lost in their own worlds, mourning those who they had loved so much that in there, leave they left them broken. Trapped in the memories of those they had lost, for Castiel, it had rung true, but Dean, ever ignorant to his emotions, chose to find a scapegoat.

It hadn't been gradual. Instead, it was violent and sudden, stunning in its speed. Dean was relentless in his accusations, never letting up on blaming Castiel for their mother's death, and all Castiel would do was take it. A punching bag, and hypocritically, that only made Dean angry. He didn't want to fight. He wanted a snap and a retort to justify his violence towards the other, Castiel, however, would only listen, and it fueled the other's anger. It got to the point where that's all Dean did, wait by the angel's door so the second the other man came out, he could insult him. Then it spread to an issue between the three of them.

Samuel was also mourning. Despite having his brother for support, he couldn't say that he hadn't missed having a mother in his life. Envy for those of his peers that had their mothers, caring and gentle, while Sam went back to whatever cheap motel they had decided to stow away for the week. Not needing his mother as much didn't mean he couldn't miss her and that he didn't mourn her painfully so. Dean didn't understand this, would say he had no right when Sam was tired of seeing his brother degrade the last bit of family they had. His intervention was resisted at every turn, and regretfully, the insults became harsher. He wishes it had stayed like that.

The first time he noticed it was a week after everything had gone down, it felt much longer than a week, but he hated himself for not seeing it earlier. The broom closet was useless. It shocked them when they found it, a global supernatural fighting force in need of a broom closet was hilarious beyond belief. It was too small to be a room and far too big for them to fill it up and make it wall again, so it stayed as the useless broom closet they would pass by and laugh at. Eventually, they started tossing their clothes after a case, a toxic bacterial manifestation, when they finally realized they needed to wash them. It wasn't long until they began to storing their weapons there, too, the demon blade, angel blade, and a few of their preferred guns.

It was Sam who had started throwing his stuff in there after a particularly nasty skinwalker case. Dean had thrown a fit over ruining Baby's seats with monster blood after he spent hours on a bloodstain no one would take accountability for. Pacing back in forth in the kitchen, muttering about having a bunch of "ungrateful bastards" in the bunker. Sam had mouthed him off, smiling when he caught Cas trying to hide his smile. His quick solution was the broom closet. Without much thought, he had chugged what he could in there. It turned out long term. They had everything organized. They had taken perhaps their only trip to Target ever to get cubbies and labels for everything, and so the broom closet became less useless than they initially thought. He started going there more after Belphegor, dusting, and cleaning the weaponry strangely calmed him.

The angel blade was missing, one week after Belphegors betrayal. He thought nothing of it for the first minute, but the more he pondered, the more concerned he became. It couldn't have been a monster or a demon. The bunkers' alarms would've gone off far before they even had the opportunity to find the closet. That didn't stop him from going to the control room and checking the alarm's history, only growing more concerned when he said that nothing had triggered the alarm. They never carried their weapons in the bunker, especially not now when they had nothing to worry about. Sam and Castiel certainly didn't, never felt the need to, and Dean only carried a pistol. They had never broken from that mold.

He stammered out of the room, his hands gripping onto the old brick that formed the archway, leaving its imprint after only seconds of contact. His hands and face dripping with sweat as he quietly crept into his brother, knowing that he was showering, in frantic urgency, he dug through every drawer and cabinet, searched through every article of clothing both relieved and panicked at the loss of the blade. Only then did he quietly start organizing everything, not that his brother would really notice. The thought, awful and chilling, hit him. It wasn't a new concept to him, but he couldn't help how his eyes burned, blurring his vision as he cried onto his hands and whatever clothing got in its way.

He remembered when he had considered it years ago when everything was no longer spontaneous and instead became the same thing over and over when his brother and father both started becoming more and more alike, and he became alienated from his hopes and aspirations. But he had no place to hide. Even on the rare occasions that John would leave him with Bobby, he had no way of excusing wearing sweaters or long sleeves at all times. A more immense fear was his dad figuring out, grabbing him by the arm and hurling insults and punches, only to blame Bobby. It would be his fault then. He would be the reason the only loving connection they had would be severed. It would be selfish, he would be a monster, and the thought deterred him every time.

Castiel didn't have that.

The gashes were deep, disgusting canyons that gushed a bright white light that, while beautiful, just pained him. The angel hadn't struggled. When he knocked, he gave no response, and Sam, afraid of the worst, had barged in to find him slouched over the side of the bed. It was so quiet, almost like a clone of Castiel, he just looked up and back down to his gashes. With no care in the world that the younger Winchester was there, he went to make another gash along his left forearm. It was only Saam launching himself over the angel that stopped him from following through.

_"I would have given anything for him to be here. For him to live. Anything." he had said, for the first time since the incident, he had spoken coherently. Up to that point, it had been single word responses or facial gestures. Sam didn't push further. Instead, he solemnly understood that all parties involved felt this way. He gently led the angel into the restroom and treated him to his wounds. Confiscating the blade and putting a lock into the seemingly unproblematic broom closet. If Dean noticed, he never said anything._

That didn't mean anything changed after that. Castiel continued his abuse, refusing to heal himself from even a paper cut, his penance, or so he called it. Sam saw it for what it was, unhealthy, but selfishly he did nothing. Did nothing even when Dean's insults escalated to a level he thought his brother was incapable of, and even then, he selfishly stayed quiet because if Castiel didn't say anything, why would he. Because they were both adults who should know how to resolve their issues healthily and calmly without resorting to harmful and awful low blows. Without spitting and oozing poison every time, they found it fit to speak.

But they weren't allowed to grow up normal, Sam had a bit of experience, but Dean, his fathers, lap dog, no matter how much he was tugged around, only knew one way. It wasn't convenient, it wasn't okay, but it was all he knew. On the other hand, he had an angel mourning the loss of his child. One whom he had to see die not once but twice. Obliterating him. One who he felt he'd let down, unable to protect them, after all, what would a father not do for their child.

"Fuck if I know where he went, but I know I messed up. I messed up. I'm saying it, so why won't he just come back." His brother exclaimed, tugging his hair as his eyes only became more bloodshot, the threat of tears very prominent," I-I didn't mean it. None of it, I'm, just bring him back, tell me you can get him back, Sammy." The blood was now running thick, just like the disgusting goo the leviathans left in their hurt, thick, and Sam panicked.

The room seemed to exhaust itself in an effort to get rid of the heavy metallic stench that threatened to overwhelm it until that was all it was, the wallpaper clinging onto the horrific odor. Sam couldn't just drag Dean to the restroom, they'd never make it, and in Dean's state, he'd purposefully aim to make his hand worse. Sam wanted to fill his brothers with empty promises even if to momentarily lift his spirits, to get this over with, but what would happen when he sobered up when he had to come to face more than three evils. Regardless of how hurt his brother seemed to be, Sam couldn't hide his curiosity, but further than that, he deserved an explanation. Then came the wreck he made of his hand, the ruined whiskey cup, and, more importantly, Castiel's disappearance.

Winchesters, being a liar, was just a byproduct of the name, as well as a life of never-ending misery and pain, as almost every acquaintance that had the misfortune of crossing paths with them would agree. They became blatantly aware of this as they drove away from their burning home all those years ago, ingrained just as real as their anti-possession tattoos. Sam never wanted to be a liar, he had tried so hard to get away from the life, and in the end, he couldn't safely say if it was the right choice, not then and not now. Seeing his brother still locked into whatever state he was in, he felt inclined to say this wasn't right, lying wasn't straight, lying to themselves saying that they were content with their life wasn't right.

They'd done it for so long, for each other because they had issues, a statement so obvious, but it had taken them years to admit it and even know Dean only admitted it when he was drunk or crying. They were far too attached for their own good that in the rare chance they got with someone. In the sparse times, they had reached a slice of the vanilla and ignorant life they had turned away for one another, they were family, and that was the only thing that made their pathetically miserable life all the bit more tolerable. It had also set them up to fail with others. The list went on and on. They were dependent on one another, but that didn't branch out to others. They could come and go as they pleased, and they did, much more to Dean's amazement.

They both grew twisted, rotten right from their roots, and Dean had always stayed with their father. Idolized a man who held so much toxicity, he was surprised they hadn't developed asthma as John rushed to pollute them in his image, and Dean, ever obedient, had soaked it all in. Over-attached, it was funny thinking about it now. When the angel had first entered their life, one of his brother's never-ending complaints was how he followed him like a dog. Saying whatever he could to get the angel in question to give him space, even wishing for him to go away. But when Castiel had gone missing or refused to answer their calls for days or weeks at a time, it was Dean who fretted between silent prayers when he believed Sam to be asleep or constant phone checks, under the worst guise of indifference.

"We can talk about that after we bandage your hand. If we don't, you cant go looking for Cas, right? You have to be at one hundred percent to track him down, and if you're hurt, you'll have to stay here." Bobby would have set Dean straight. He was always better at the emotional stuff in his own strangely rough way. The older man always knew what to say so that it resonated with his idiot of his brother, the one with the emotional stability of a loaf of bread. 

Dean had hurt him too. It was right after John had died, and he'd taken to the bottle with more determination than ever before, knocking back bottle after bottle and parading himself to anyone interested enough. In the beginning, Sam had tried being understanding. After all, even the younger of the two felt pain for their loss, Sam could only imagine it was trifold for Dean, and so he let it slide. It only got worse, and where before there used to be hope for him to jump back into work, he only seemed more sluggish. The breaking point was two months in when he'd woken up to find himself stranded at the hotel they'd been staying at with no sign of Dean. His compassion flew right out of the window then.

A week passed by, and he was sure he'd gained a bald spot or two from the stress. The amount of hair that coated his pillow in the morning had him shaking. It only got worse. Having to steal a car, getting caught, flying out of the police car, running through the woods for hours, stealing another car, and searching for hours only to get nothing besides the use of one of their cards in Chicago earlier that day. He'd hoped into the car and dashed to Chicago. Hoping his brother would be passed out at some club with any luck, or at least someone at said club could lead the way. When he did make it, he found nothing and almost cried when Bobby called to tell him he was at his place, alive.

_"You're not my dad."_

_Bobby._ The man had always been there for them, giving them a taste of what could have been a bare and domestic life where they didn't carry the lives of civilians daily. The man who poured his life and soul into keeping them happy, taking to the park and fighting with John when he was too harsh on fucking children. They were just children. He was the one who kept them safe even when the pair were too scared to say it allowed, scared of the walls carrying their secret to their dad, offering his spare rooms to them and refusing to open the door when John came pounding and threatening to break in. Bobby was a father in more ways than he could explain.

_"An acquaintance who got parental."_

_Bobby._ The one who would drop everything in an instant if it meant being of use to the boys, he had done it more than a dozen times. He was never an acquaintance, they had been introduced as family, eyebrow-raising when John said it, and even if he hadn't, the man had earned his place. The same kind-hearted, scared and broken man who loved so much he'd paid with his life to keep the boys going. Everything was meant to hurt the older man, and the prolonged silence that followed only made the itch behind his eyes waver to the point of being unbearable. Then the backdoor slammed shut, and he rushed in.

The flowers that had stubbornly grown in front of the home wilting down, looking at him in disgust as he ran his way up the newly refurnished wooden steps. The door seemed to mock him, its dark burgundy color imitating blood in its set state. He shook his head with a fever as he opened the door to find Bobby stubbornly holding back emotion in his living room.

_"Bobby," The man in question looked up at him and shook his head, "I'm sorry, he doesn't mean that. I've never seen you that way. He's acting so much like J-" Everything Dean had said was intending to hurt, to press into wounds and fears that the older man had always questioned, but in typical hunter fashion never said. Burning, an overwhelming scorching heat that consumed him, and Dean was none the wiser._

_He could see it now, Bobby's couch feet away from where it had always been, the first aid kit laid open and battered atop the worn coffee table hints of cigarette burns scattered across, a beer spilled over the already stained carpet. A frame shattered by the door. He hoped his hand would be enough comfort for the man. They were both slipping._

_"I refuse to let you finish that sentence, damn idjit. Your dad was a lot of things, not all good, same goes for your brother. That doesn't mean he's like 'im." But his words didn't carry his usual bite, the snarky sharpness. Instead, an underlying sadness brought them to him. So frail he feared he didn't hear them correctly, impulsively he hugged Bobby, the sniffles on both ends hidden under a silent agreement. He couldn't look at Dean for weeks after._

_And Dean never apologized._

An undeniable talent for hurting those around him and ignorantly feeling entitled to their forgiveness whenever he seemed fit. Angry when you expected the same, he had a walking contradiction as a brother, and Sam often found himself wondering if there would ever be a turning point to such damaging behavior.

"No, I need to go, Sammy, I have to say I'm-, just I have to go," Dean said, getting up so rapidly Sam stayed on the ground in a stupor before getting up and gently taking hold of his brothers elbow. Taking away the jacket he had picked up, happy to see he hadn't gotten to Baby's keys. It would be a massacre and a half trying to take the keys away from them, and he desperately needed to get his hand checked before it got an infection or something of the sort.

Dean turns to face him with irritation and desperation, moving to push him but failing as the exhaustion and pain of his injury finally began to catch up to him. How long had it been since he had mutilated his hand? Sam had been in his room last Dean checked. It would've taken him a while to notice. Dean couldn't stomach the thought of looking at the pool of blood he no doubt had formed. Making him waver from where he stood.

"Here," Sam tries his best to make it seem like he wasn't helping Dean, lifting him up awkwardly so that it seemed like Dean was moving on his own, "Come on." The closer they got to the restroom, the slower they got, his brother putting more weight onto Sam until Sam was mostly dragging him to the bathroom. Only a few grunts made him aware of the injured man's disapproval, but otherwise, nothing was done as they transitioned from cement to tile flooring.

Dean remained silent, staring intently at the individual tiles that made up the bathroom floor, afraid to look up and meet his brother's eyesight. He had been weak and pathetic. There was no excuse for that. The atmosphere here was so different that it had assaulted his senses, the coldness of the toilet where the green-eyed man sat and the smell of Windex and bleach sobering him up further. Realization was an awful emotion, he decided. To sit there like a child waiting for their mother to return and whisper comforts into their ear as they solved all their issues with a bandaid wasn't the Winchester way.

Sam glanced his way several times, Dean pointedly ignored him. By now, his little brother no doubt had noticed he was soberer, more aware, and slipping into his denial. The information did nothing but stress him out more. Either he would shut down, be a petulant man-baby and not say anything, or he would get angry, rapid and unstoppable, storm away, and do everything himself while yelling about what he did to Cas and adding a few insults along the way for good measure. Neither of these was reassuring, but he only said a silent prayer to no one in particular as he took the tray and set it next to the sink.

"This won't take long, just a cleanup and a few stitches, but that should be about it." They were well stocked in medical supplies. Any good hunter would be, considering the number of times the Winchesters seemed to take a hit for one another, it was a necessity. Dean only nodded numbly without so much as looking at his hand. He knew, however, that it was severe. He couldn't remember most of it, or maybe his mind was already hard at work suppressing his memories, but he could remember the sticky feeling as blood covered his hand, the smell that leeched onto them—an undertone in the otherwise sterile bathroom.

_"Without Jack, I'm nothing, I will remain that way. I've done so much. I have known for a long time now that if I had just thought it over better, so much could have changed, but now there's nothing I can do. This is my punishment."_

The four sentences that had started it all, and in the end, what was it all for? It was the only time the angel had responded to him in full sentences, and it was to throw himself a pity party. Dean had seen red. Now, as he stared at his brother with a needle in hand, ready to fix Dean's stupid mistakes, he cussed himself over. He was but a fuck up. A hypocrite, he had done the same thing for years. He was no one to judge.

And still, he felt a fire, insatiable and all-consuming, spreading through his body like an ember in a drought-affected field, sizzling and rising in waves. He couldn't say for sure if he had tried, like a damn, just taking and taking containing it all until he couldn't anymore, and it had overflowed. Maybe he hadn't, an impulse to just lash out had overtaken him, and he had, to Cas a friend, family. Someone in grief, maybe he didn't care, perhaps he wanted someone to talk to again and couldn't. But he didn't speak. He never did. Emotions, opening up, and being vulnerable weren't things he wanted nor ever needed to do. So why was it so overwhelming now.

His face had been so blank, like the first time they met, but worse because this time he was hiding behind it. Castiel was hiding from Dean. He shouldn't have to. All at once, the angel had become unreadable, not a single physical clue to what he was thinking, but Dean knew he had messed up. The most rational part of himself slammed itself into his mind, desperate in its attempts to get him to say so, and still, he ignorantly resisted. Everyone walked away, he used this as an excuse to justify not letting people close to keep himself distant, but now he only allowed himself to understand why. It was because of him. He was rotten, so utterly gone.

_Rotten._

_Rotten._

**_Rotten._ **

"You're all patched. Go rest. I'll wake you up for lunch or before then if I find out where he is." He wouldn't look at him, and even though he so desperately wanted to fight, to say that he needed to be there to help but he couldn't. Instead, he picked himself up, if only barely, and made his way to his room now more than ever a prison of his own making, and in his solitude, he let himself say what had been storming in his mind since his youth.

_I give up._

**Author's Note:**

> Marigold- Despair and grief over the loss of love


End file.
